The Life and Exploits of the Daring Sky Pirate
by Tafkae
Summary: Being a brief documentation of Balthier's history as a sky pirate, to include his acquisition of the Strahl and his meeting the viera Fran. Pregame, and full of spoilers. Enjoy!
1. Archades

**The Life and Exploits of the Daring Sky Pirate Balthier**  
By Tafkae

**Archades**

An overcast sky was by no means enough to stop the people of Archades going about their business as usual. Ardents and gentry alike milled through the streets on all the city's many levels, while overhead, small ships and cabs zipped by in neat files. Every so often, one broke off from the rest and turned down a side avenue toward its respective destination.

One such cab was nearly empty, save the driver and a single armoured passenger. It was strange; the Judges did not typically make use of public cabs, nor did they typically have reason to travel unaccompanied to the homes of prominent noble families. But the driver did not ask his reasons, and the Judge did not volunteer them. The only sounds within the vehicle were the whirring of the glossair rings and the occasional clacking of metal as the lone passenger made himself comfortable. 

It was not long before they arrived. The manse actually comprised the uppermost two floors of a much larger building, but the family also held ownership of the other sixty-eight or so stories. The cab pulled up at the far end of the cobbled courtyard and released the hatch with a soft hiss. Before the door was even fully open, the Judge had stepped out, and strode urgently toward the front door. No-one needed to announce him; his armour performed that task loudly enough of itself.

The guard at the door saluted him as he approached. "Your Honour."

"Where's the lord of the house?" the Judge asked incisively.

"Lord Bunansa is currently occupied at Draklor Laboratory, Your Honour," replied the guard.

The Judge nodded curtly. "Good." He gestured to the door. "Well?"

The soldier paused for a moment, confused, then reluctantly pushed it open. "Right away, Your Honour."

"Oh, stop calling me that," the Judge muttered darkly, stepping past him into the estate.

The Bunansa home was as lavishly decorated inside as out. Rich carving decorated the wood moulding, and here and there magicite-enhanced plants seemed to spring from the very walls. The Judge did not seem either to notice or to care, and proceeded directly up the main stairs, sparing to the handful of servants who attempted to engage him only the word "No." 

He soon disappeared into the chambers at the end of the hallway and shut the door. One maidservant standing near the stairs turned to another nearby. "Seems Master Ffamran's come back a sight early," she whispered.

Inside the room, the Judge's helmet hit the bed with a soft _thud,_ rolled once, and lay still. Unmasked, Ffamran studied his reflection in the mirror, then removed one of his gauntlets and smoothed back his sandy hair with his bare hand. It sprang immediately back into a bird's-nest the moment he let it go. _Helmet hair._ What a bother. Still, there was a certain satisfaction in his face as he began freeing himself from the rest of the Judge's armour. At least this was the last time he would ever have to deal with it.

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"_Ffamran, a word?"_

Ffamran stood before his superior officer, by no means for the first time. There was no love lost between the two of them. They had every reason in the world to despise one another, and did so with impunity. He, for one, had never bothered to remember the man's name.

"You are already well aware of this, I'm sure, but since you are so firmly set on causing trouble for the company, I do not hesitate to say it again." He leaned forward, no doubt trying to rattle him by invasion of personal space. "You have not earned your rank, you have not earned your responsibility, and you have not and will not earn anyone's respect. You and I both know it was your father's gil that's put you in that armour." (Ffamran's sneer at the mention of the old madder was, fortunately, hidden by his helmet.) "You haven't the experience—nay, the maturity—_necessary for this position._ No _boy of seven-and-ten can properly act out the duties of a Judge."_

Ffamran was actually, as of ten-fifteen this morning, eighteen, _but he didn't bother correcting him. _

"You do not deserve this position," his superior continued irately. "Were it up to me, you'd have long lost it. Your behaviour is entirely unacceptable. Keep in this vein and you'll be among the ranks before you can say 'it shan't happen again,' nobility be damned."

He couldn't resist. "I thought it wasn't up to you?" he asked, smiling smugly behind the faceplate. 

"Enough of your snide comments, Ffamran," the officer snapped. "Either you'll take seriously your duties as a Judge, or you'll take seriously the duties of a common infantryman. Am I understood?"

Ffamran glared through the visor. "I understand. Trust me, Your Honour, I shall see to it that you never have to discipline me on this matter again."

"See that you do," his superior replied. "Dismissed." Ffamran afforded him one last, crisp salute, then walked calmly away.

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It was certainly good to get out of that tin can. He hadn't the time nor the interest to put it away properly, so it instead sat in a neat pile in the corner (excepting the helmet, for which he had special plans). Even now he could see the stack in the mirror, out of the corner of his eye, as he finished up combing his hair. He tried to ignore it.

All the things he was taking were already prepared to go; this plan had been in the works for weeks. He'd pilfered some provisions from the kitchens, gradually withdrawn quite a decent amount of gil from the family's coffers, put up with the rest of the Judges in the meantime… and no one was the wiser. Yet. The element of surprise, of course, was what truly made a dramatic exit. All that remained now were the finishing touches.

Satisfied at last with his appearance, he slipped the comb into the bag on the nearby table. The rest of it he'd packed last night, half with his favourite attire and half with clothes he could actually _wear._ Most of his favourites laced up in the back, a bit of an inconvenience when travelling alone.

Next to the bag sat his helmet; this he picked up and, holding it between his hands, stared into its empty visor. "I'd like you to know, I've loathed every moment we've spent together, and I sincerely hope never to see you again." With that, he dropped it into a box on the floor and tightly shut the lid.

He went out the back way, unseen, with his pack over his shoulder and the box tucked under his arm. The cab was waiting there, as he'd requested. "Where to, sir?" said the driver.

"Tsenoble," said Ffamran. As the glossair rings warmed up, he added, "And after that, I've a delivery for you to take to Doctor Cid at Draklor. A bit out of the way, but there's a chop in it for you if you do."

"S-sir?" said the driver, puzzled, but not about to refuse a chop. "I mean, certainly, sir! I'll be happy to."

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There was in town a certain streetear of whom Ffamran was a favoured customer, probably because he was also among his most affluent clients. Under normal circumstances, he was not an easy man to find, but when he wished to be found, he could turn up nearly anywhere. As such, he turned up in Tsenoble, innocently eavesdropping as usual, as was his business. Ffamran hailed him from a little ways off. "Afternoon, Jules."

Jules turned to him with a practised look of pleasant surprise. "Well, Master Ffamran! Been a while, hasn't it? How's the Judgeship?"

Ffamran sneered briefly and shook his head.

"Somehow that fails to astound," said Jules, a little amused. "And what might I do for you this fine day?" he asked, gesturing loosely at the greyed-over sky.

"Well, it happens I'm in the market for a new airship," said Ffamran.

Jules folded his arms. "And? Airships aren't my trade."

"I'm aware of that," Ffamran replied dryly. "Yet I came to you first, that ought to tell you something."

Jules smiled slyly; he'd gotten his interest. "Well. Any specific considerations?"

"Something fast, and already skyworthy. The newer the better." He paused to watch a taxi pass by a few stories up. "Not one of those short-range piles, either," he added as an afterthought.

"Going somewhere?" said Jules, raising an eyebrow.

"Not at all," Ffamran lied.

For a moment, the streetear was silent, thinking. "Hm," he said eventually. "Now that I think on it, I may just know of a one that'd suit you. How does, oh… twenty-thousand sound?"

Ffamran's expression didn't waver. "Fifteen."

Jules sighed. "Honestly, Master Ffamran, do you expect me to haggle _now_ of all times? Particularly if, as I suspect, I am to lose my favourite client in the near future?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" said Ffamran, placing his hands on his hips.

"Think you me that ignorant of your character, sir?" Jules chuckled. "I'd wager you've had it in your head for some time."

"If wagers like that are where you trust your gil, it seems hardly worth paying you at all," Ffamran remarked. "Seventeen-five, or I'll be forced to inquire elsewhere."

"Well enough," said Jules, and accepted the money. "As I gather, YPA's come out with a new model—believe it's called the 'GB47'. Experimental, and boasts some unique design features—dual movable wings, for a start. Supposed to be blindingly fast, but the client rejected it on grounds of cost-effectiveness. The sole prototype's anchored in their shipyard yet, and due to be scrapped." He paused. "I can't say how like it is to be up for sale, though."

Ffamran smirked ambiguously. "Oh, I'm sure the guild could be convinced to let her go." He nodded to the streetear and started on his way again. "Thanks for your time."

Jules frowned. "You're a difficult man to reckon, Master Ffamran. I'd have thought you more interested in a derelict, something to repair and refurbish at your leisure."

Ffamran stopped. "Leisure's not something I presently have in excess."

"Ah, of course, Your Honour, I nearly forgot." He paused. "But in that case, you would already have access to—"

Ffamran rolled his eyes and faced him. "Do you mean to detain me all afternoon, Jules?"

"Not at all," said Jules. "Does aught harry you?"

"Apart from your questioning, you mean?" Ffamran folded his arms. "I _could_ tell you," he said eventually, "for thirty-thousand."

Jules pondered this for a few seconds. "How's seventeen-five?" he countered.

Ffamran shook his head. "Honestly, Jules, do you expect me to haggle _now_ of all times?"

A flicker of unhappiness crossed Jules' face. "Twenty-three."

"Thirty or naught," said Ffamran coolly. It was perfectly clear to him the streetear wanted the information too badly to refuse.

As he'd expected, Jules grudgingly paid up. Ffamran nodded slightly. "I have it on good authority that there _is_ no Judge by the name Ffamran Bunansa. Nor indeed is there anyone by that name in the whole of the Empire." 

Jules' eyebrows rose as Ffamran strode away. "Really. Then what shall I call you, should we meet again?"

"Not 'Your Honour,' certainly," said Ffamran, and then he had gone.

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"Lord Bunansa?"

Doctor Cid did not slow his quick pace down the corridor, forcing the researcher who'd called him to follow a few steps. "Lord Bunansa, sir!"

"If we employ fourteen in the array instead of twelve—what think you of that, Venat?" Cid muttered to himself, still walking. "I believe the extra—"

"Sir, I don't mean to interrupt—"

"Yet here you are interrupting," said Cid, rounding suddenly on the man. "Make it quick."

The man hesitated for half a moment before proceeding. "Eh, there's a delivery come for you a few hours past, sir. It awaits in your office."

Cid fixed his spectacles, pleased. "Ah, yes. I think I know what it is, as well. Excellent." Not further acknowledging the man, he brushed past him and continued onward.

"Yes, this should help immensely," he repeated to the air. "Why, either the magicite samples I requested, or an explanation and apology for their lateness, of course. Yes, I'm quite sure."

The door of his office opened at a touch, and as the lamps undimmed, he found the presumed delivery on his desk. The somewhat garish colour of the package made it look more like a hatbox than anything, though. Intrigued, he crossed to it and removed the lid.

Inside was neither magicite nor an apology—only a head.

Surprised, but not amused, he pulled it out. The helmet's relative lightness and a mere moment's observation easily revealed it as not containing a head at all; it was nothing more than the empty helm of a Judge. "Has a certain charming morbidity to it," he remarked casually. "Who do you suppose it's from?"

There was a moment's pause. "It belongs to young Ffamran, does it not?"

"Hm." Cid turned the helmet over in his hands once or twice, then set it down none too gently on the desk. "Foolish boy," he snarled. 

"Something else yet remains."

Cid leaned over the box, and surely enough, resting deep inside was a small, hardcover book. Curious, he pulled it out with one gloved hand and turned it over, adjusting his spectacles again to read the title… then he laughed.

"Idiot boy!" he shouted. "Where do you think to run?" He harshly tossed the book onto the desk; it slid across the width of the surface and fell to the floor on the other side. Disgusted, Cid turned on his heel and left the office. "I care not."

A soldier approached him as he exited. "My lord, news of grave urgency. Your son—"

Cid cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Vex me not with such trifles. Do as you will." His voice grew dark and severe. "I have no son."

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The small book remained on the floor of Cid's office for nearly a week afterwards, until he was sickened by the sight of it and hurled it from the roof. A passer-by picked it up some time later, and promptly sold it; after all, The Life and Exploits of the Daring Sky-Pirate Balthier was not the most widely-found book of children's stories.

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_I hope you've enjoyed this so far. Reviews are much appreciated. _

_In any case, I intend to continue it._


	2. Rabanastre

**The Life and Exploits of the Daring Sky Pirate Balthier**  
By Tafkae

**Rabanastre**

Mere minutes into his new career, Balthier learned the first crucial lesson of piracy, and that was to tell no one where he was going. There had been no prior alerts on the ship he'd appropriated, and YPA's shipyard had been deserted apart from himself, so at first, the Imperial patrol that decided they would stop him leaving Archades was something of a surprise.

Then, belatedly, he remembered that he was not Jules' _only_ client.

The radio crackled to life. "Ffamran Bunansa, this is your final warning. Turn back now or we will take martial action against you."

Balthier mouthed the words in time; he'd been forced to memorize this spiel himself once. "Thank you, gentlemen, but I've no intention of diverting my travel plans at your behest," he replied, then returned the mouthpiece to its setting and switched off the radio altogether.

"All right, let's see what you can do," he murmured to the airship, fixing his grip upon the controls. "Fulfill your reputation, won't you?"

With that, he banked hard left and downward. The ship overreacted and attempted to nose-dive into the Old City, but jerked back up at just as light a touch. Balthier scowled at the console. A tad too sensitive for his liking; he'd have to adjust that once he set down.

The patrol pursued him, of course, and opened fire a second after he cleared the outskirts. He knew the first shot to be a warning and made no effort to dodge it. The boys were following protocol to the letter today.

He, on the other hand, had never found protocol very effective, particularly when used against someone who knew it – which he did. "And so the dance begins," he commented, and pulled suddenly back against the controls.

The ship shot directly upwards, twisting onto its back as he pushed it southward, and then back upright. (So she _could_ run inverted, that was good to know.) As the patrol fighters came after him, he loosed the throttle on the main engine and pressed forward. The thrust pushed him against his seat, but not as much as he would have liked. Perhaps the Imperials couldn't catch up, but he still wasn't losing them quickly enough.

For one, they were still in weapons range, as a near miss past his windshield reminded him. "'Blindingly fast,' he says," he muttered darkly. He'd be sure to remedy _that_ before next time. For now there was only to evade them, what without aft-mounted guns.

Well, fine. Armed or no, this was nevertheless the most fun Balthier had had in ages. "Come on, then, try to keep up," he declared rhetorically, swerving out of their path.

_This_ was why he loved flying.

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Though the Archades patrol broke off pursuit after a while, a border patrol coming up on Nabradia gave him a spot of additional trouble. This was also when he made the inconvenient discovery that his new ship lacked _fore_-mounted guns, either.

Still, he managed to get past them without much damage to either the ship or his life; certainly not enough to divert him to Nabudis, in any event. Even that was just a bit too close to home. Instead, he continued into the heart of the Galtean Peninsula, and in particular, the Aerodrome at Rabanastre. There he would not be pursued; it was far from the Empire's jurisdiction.

And so Balthier made his first rounds outside the ship as she sat idle in the hangar. A thorough inspection of the ship was something he would have preferred having the time to perform _before_ commandeering her, and might have allowed him to avoid that rather embarrassing unarmed charge back at the border. The turrets had been carelessly stripped; now that he took a moment to look, he could tell precisely where they _should_ have been, thanks mainly to the great empty sockets directly over the glossair rings.

Worse yet, she was _blue._ That wouldn't do at all. At least, given the few times he'd been hit en route here, she would need a new coat of paint anyway. The damage wasn't critical, though; he could easily put off repairs until after he'd found out what they had to eat in Dalmasca.

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"_Dad, it's_ blue."

_Cid Bunansa chuckled. "So repaint her. Might I suggest pink with yellow spots?" _

_Ffamran wrinkled his nose a bit at that; Cid saw it and laughed. "Any colour you like. She's yours now, my boy." _

_Sceptically, Ffamran walked about the small ship's exterior. It was hardly impressive, scarcely larger than a public taxi, and with the paint chipping at the joints. "It's old," he commented, coming around the bow. _

"_That she is," his father replied, still smiling. "Nearly as old as I, I'd wager." _

_Ffamran glanced up in surprise, as though in disbelief that things of such incredible age could exist. Many of the airships he'd seen had been built at some point during his scant twelve years, or at least he could think of no reason to believe they had not. "Will she even fly?" _

"_Ah." That had been the question Cid waited to hear. "That, Ffamran, is up to you." _

"_How do you mean?" _

_His father stepped forward and laid a gentle hand upon the fuselage. "Do you remember those few models you helped me repair a fortnight ago?" Ffamran nodded; he had stayed awake until dawn for several nights modifying the figures. "You've a rare gift for mechanicks, Ffamran, one I won't bear to see unpractised." _

_Ffamran turned back to the airship, perplexed. "You're giving me a broken-down airship for my birthday so that I can overhaul it." _

"_Precisely." _

"_Why not one that works?" _

"_I can hardly be expected to loose a twelve-year-old boy upon the skyways of Archades before he's learnt to fly, Ffamran," Cid replied, smiling. _

"_You might teach me. You're a good pilot." _

"_And teach you I shall, once you've a working airship of your own." _

_So that was it. Ffamran sighed; there was little he could do for that. "Well, all right, then." _

_Cid fixed his spectacles almost disapprovingly. "Don't sound so disappointed. With your talent, I can't envision it taking overlong. Actually," he added, gesturing toward his son's hands, "it ought to be easier for you, your hands still being their present size. I doubt you'll need for a few years yet to contract a moogle for the delicate work." Ffamran looked dismayed, but Cid only shrugged. "There's nothing for it. Some instruments simply aren't made for hume fingers to alter." _

_Ffamran never thanked his father for the airship, except by having it skyworthy within the span of two months._

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"Excuse me, might I have a word with Nono?"

Nono's large, furry ears perked at hearing his name, and he poked his head curiously around the side of the ship he was presently working on. Another of his ground crew was pointing a well-dressed hume in his direction, and he waved a short arm helpfully. "Over here, kupo!"

He sat down on the scaffold as the man approached, stepping over the spare parts and rogue tools systematically scattered across the hangar floor. For the way he was dressed, the mess didn't seem to faze him at all. "What can I do for you, kupo?" he asked, looking down at him – the scaffold was a bit higher than the man was tall.

"I'm looking for a mechanic," said the hume, getting straight to business.

Nono grinned. "Well, you've found some! My ground crew's the best in all Dalmasca, kupo." He leaned down and extended his hand. "I'm the foreman, Nono. Who'm I speaking to, kupo?"

"Balthier," the man replied, shaking his hand; he had an easier time reaching than the moogle. "I might have something of a challenge for you," he continued, with just the hint of a smile. "Care to have a look?"

A challenge, eh? Nono's nose wriggled a bit, then he nodded. "Sure, kupo." He stood up on the platform and turned more to the crew. "Ten minutes' break, kupo!" he called, then hopped from the scaffold, his wings carrying him lightly to the ground a bit ahead of Balthier. "Lead the way, kupo!"

The hangar housing Balthier's airship wasn't far, just across the way, so it was a short walk, though longer when one had short legs. "So, how'd you hear about us, kupo?" said Nono, trotting to keep up with the hume's longer stride.

"Asked for the best mechanic in Dalmasca," Balthier replied. It was hard to tell whether he was being facetious or not.

Nono chuckled. "You flatter me, even though they sent you to the right moogles, kupo!"

"I should hope they did." They walked into the hangar entryway; as the airship came into view through the other end of the short hallway, Nono stared at it, agape. "Well? What do you think?" asked Balthier.

Nono scuttled toward the ship, all the time examining it. "Kupo..." After a moment, he turned back to its owner. "What model is she? I've never seen anything like her, kupo."

Balthier's arms were folded, and he watched the ship instead of the mechanic. "She's a custom build. A YPA make, though, if that aid you."

"A little bit, kupo," Nono replied, returning his own eyes to the ship. But just what _sort_ of custom build? That was the question. He paused, noting a scorched dent on the undercarriage. _Weapons fire...?_ "You don't see a lot of YPA work coming through Rabanastre, kupo," he added, changing the subject for himself.

"That fails to surprise me," said Balthier.

"Could I have a look at the schematics, kupo?"

"She hasn't any," he replied matter-of-factly.

Nono rounded on him, surprised. "Kupo?"

"Picked her up on the cheap, slightly used," the hume explained, transferring his hands to his trouser pockets. "Only later did I realize she'd have to be entirely reverse-engineered."

"Kupo-po-po-po..." Nono murmured. "Now I see why you called it a challenge, kupo."

"She oughtn't to need much actual _repair,_ though," Balthier added. "A few modifications here and there, but damage-wise I don't think her in a bad state."

Nono nodded briefly; from the outside, at least, she didn't look bad. The weapon damage had probably been inflicted before the airship had found her way into the possession of her current owner, he'd decided. "Well," he said eventually, returning down the length of the ship. When he reached Balthier again, he hopped the last step enthusiastically. "I think you'll find my crew is more than up to the challenge, kupo!—although, of course, we should have a look around the interior, too, before we go and commit to anything, kupo," he added.

"Of course," replied Balthier, starting toward the hatch.

The moogle followed, trotting alongside him. "Incidentally, what's her name, kupo?"

Balthier released the hatch and waited for it to descend, thinking. "I've always had a fondness for 'the _Strahl,_'" he answered after a moment, stepping onto the ramp before it had fully lowered. "Now let's see to it that she lives up to the name."

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Nearly a month later, the _Strahl_ was still docked in Rabanastre, though she looked considerably different than she had the first day she made port. Nono's ground crew had fulfilled its reputation admirably, speeding up the system-mapping and retrofitting processes invaluably.

Balthier had worked alongside them whenever the situation allowed. Granted, the moogles were often occupied with other projects and employers, and more days than not, he worked alone, if at all. That is not to say he found particular enjoyment in it, so much as that the task kept his mind and hands occupied away from more troublesome concerns.

One of the first things they dealt with was the dreadful colour. This was a matter of personal taste, but he at least had the pretext of hiding the signs of weapons fire on the hull. The second were new guns. A more powerful engine was still his foremost priority, but he had yet to find one up to his standards; failing that, he didn't want to have to rely solely on outmanoeuvring his pursuers should they catch up with him again.

He had waited until Nono's crew would be on the job before trying to get the guns installed. There was an understandable confusion passing itself among the little mechanics about the issue, though. Their employer was a clean, well-groomed, amiable enough fellow, and it merited asking what he needed guns like that for. It didn't take them long to goad Nono into posing the question.

"Well, one never knows," Balthier had replied with a shrug, not looking up from the socket he was adjusting. "I might at any time find myself beset by sky pirates or somesuch."

"They're awfully big for defensive guns, kupo," Nono pointed out.

"Caution never hurt a man save in his pocketbook," said Balthier.

But his pocketbook was quickly becoming the problem. Cut off from any doubtless-frozen accounts in Archades, things were beginning to run a bit tighter than he would have liked. He had weighed his options a number of times. Fugitive that he was, any remotely legitimate work was out; as an Archadian in Dalmasca, he already attracted undue attention merely by opening his mouth; and as a sky pirate – or even had he not been – he would not fetter himself in someone else's employ. But that left him few options.

Fortunately, it was about then that he met Fran.

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_I'm glad you've all been enjoying the story. There should be a bit more action/adventurey stuff in the next chapter. _

_As always, reviews are much appreciated!_


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